An Unpolished Gem
by NotAllGirlsAreGlass
Summary: John discovers all new facets of his best friend when they take a case involving Sherlock's family.


**A/N: This is a fic written with 1895GoodSir. It alternates between Sherlock's POV and John's POV. I hope you enjoy. :D**

"Are you ready for this weekend, John?" I call out to John from the kitchen.

"What's this weekend?" he says back, obviously irritated that I interrupted his conversation with Sarah. They'd become fast friends after the Black Lotus incident. Occasional fuck buddies as well, as far as I could tell-which was far.

"The British Government," my own little nickname for my oh-so-important brother, "has decided that you and I need to solve a crime."

"What crime?" John is now interested. Of course. "And why not solve it now?"

"We have other cases on at the moment, of course."

That's right. We always had "cases" whenever Mycroft wanted a favor.

"And you're going to do the case without me having to serve as go-between?" I was a bit surprised that Sherlock wasn't going to /completely/ immature about this. Really, only making Mycroft wait a few days was a step forward. But still . . . "Sherlock, we don't really have any cases. Why not just solve the case for your brother, since you were complaining about your boredom this morning?"

I barely glance up from my microscope. "Because this case is one hundred and seventeen years old. It can wait a few more days."

I can tell by the sputters coming from his direction that John is baffled by the large number. "Really, Sherlock, you're kidding, right?"

The look I give him answers his question thoroughly. "There was a heist back then, in 1895. A jewel was stolen from the Bank of London, and Mycroft is sure I can deduce who stole it and why based on century-old evidence. Not that I can't."

Of course he can. He's Sherlock Holmes. If anyone can solve a case so old that it's hardly a case anymore, it's him. However, I can't help but wonder . . . "Why is Mycroft interested in this case now? What's so important about it? I was under the impression that he concerned himself more with national security than mysteries from Victorian times." Sherlock doesn't even spare me a glance as he replies, "Mycroft has always had an undue affection for history." Apparently, that was all the answer I was going to get.

"Sherlock, can you pass me the jam?"

No.

"Sher-." John raises from the couch to grab the jam from the kitchen table. "You could at least reply."

"Oh, I thought I did." The lie is perfect. I'm getting better, for John doesn't even second-guess me. "Do you have your things ready for noon?"

"Of course I do. I'm not an idiot." I look at him with a raised brow. "Bloody...I am not!" John huffs and turns his back on me, stalking back to the sofa. I'm still at my microscope, studying the capillary samples from the John Doe down at the morgue. Peculiar, this one.

As we got into our cab to go to King's Cross that afternoon, I couldn't keep quiet. "Why exactly do we have to get on a train to investigate a case that took place right here in London?" It didn't make a bit of sense. But, then again, very little made sense where Sherlock Holmes was involved.

Of course John wouldn't know-but I wouldn't voice that out loud.

"The jewel was stolen from the Bank of London, yes, but the location from which it was stolen is out in the countryside." John gives me a curious glance. What's new? "It was being moved due to cleaning issues and renovations. Somewhere along the line, it fell into the wrong hands, and it disappeared, and here we are. I'm surprised Mycroft even needed me for this one. It's ridiculous, really."

"You do realize we're going to solve a crime with next to no evidence for a silly jewel, right?" John can be so...dense sometimes.

I really don't understand Sherlock sometimes. Actually, I never really understand Sherlock. Nevertheless, it's fun trying to figure him out. Usually. Sometimes, I could just wring his neck and go find a flatmate who actually remembers to pick up milk. Sighing, I ask "Alright, why is the jewel so important that Mycroft wants it, and why is the case interesting enough for you to care?"

"I can sum it up in one sentence: My great-great-grandfather was the one who let the jewel be stolen." This stuns John into a long silence, until finally he breaks it.

"So what's the jewel mean, anyway? Why is it so important?" It's no surprise John would ask something like that. He's always got to have some incentive to stay on a case with me-I guess that's one thing that we have in common.

"Nothing, really. It's just a large, pure, clean-cut stone that is worth too much money to let be stolen."

"But why do people still care, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, John. Why do you keep asking ridiculous questions with obvious answers?" I know I'm being harsh, but I just get so irritated with him sometimes. I just want to, well, wring his neck. I think that's how ordinary people would put it.

I'm quiet for the next little while, pondering. Sherlock doesn't usually care what people think. He never cares when the media hound after him and print whatever rubbish they think will sell. Why does he care now? Family doesn't seem to be too strong a factor either, as he delights in snubbing Mycroft at every turn. So then, why is it so important that he discover who stole this jewel? Does he wish to clear the family name? Ensure that it took someone truly brilliant to outsmart a Holmes? I don't know, and I'm not likely to get Sherlock to talk anymore about it at this point. So, I just let the train speed along as we sit in silence.

"You know," I begin once we've stepped off the train, "as much as I love the city, this place always gets to me." I have no idea why I just admitted something like this to John. Maybe the train ride put me in a sharing mood. Whatever it means, I don't want it to happen again.

"This place? You talk as if you've been here before." John and I step out of the station, me hailing a cab, him standing behind, watching, wondering.

"Well, yes, I grew up here." Something else I didn't want John knowing-but he was bound to find out sooner or later.

"Oh, really. That's nice. Maybe we'll run into a childhood friend?" The look I give John shuts him up quick. I can't place why I'm telling him these things-is it just nostalgia messing with my internal log? I never release this information, ever. "Where are we staying, anyway?"

"You don't need to worry about trivial things such as sleeping arrangements, John."

The best thing I can do is stay quiet in the cab while we make our way to my brother's estate.

When we get out of the cab, I barely manage to keep my jaw from dropping. I knew Sherlock had to come from money, since he always wore expensive tailored suits and never seemed to make much from his cases, but I had never expected him to come from money like /this/. "Did you grow up here?" I ask with a touch of awe in my voice. Maybe that awe is why he replies with such derision. "Unfortunately." I don't see what would be unfortunate about growing up here. While I didn't grow up poor, I certainly didn't grow up rich either. Living in a place like this, where you don't have to worry about not having the money for something or other, seems like it would be wonderful. But, then again, as Sherlock has shown me, living in our cramped flat with all the experiments and whatnot, it's not the space that makes a home.

I try to push away the dread that is consuming me while we make our way to the front door of the house. If you can even call it that. I would describe it more as a gothic-style church-turned-manor. It's boring.

"Sherlock." The door opens and a familiar figure stands there, leaning just a bit on a black umbrella. Mycroft was never one for dramatics was he?

"Brother." This is ridiculous. Why are we here? Why did I take this case on?

"You're expected in the dining room in half an hour." The dread I've been pushing away so long finally rears its ugly head.

"Oh, don't tell me..."

"Mummy wishes to speak with you."

As I'm depositing my bag in a rather spacious bedroom, I'm reeling. Sherlock has never talked about his mother. In fact, I was under the impression that his parents were both deceased. Is this why Sherlock got so quiet in the cab? He'd been positively chatty at the train station, and then had quickly become silent as we got closer to his childhood home. What had happened here that he never even mentioned his parents?

Some would blame my ways, how I am, on myself. I blame them on Mummy. Oh, such harsh words for the giver of my life. I'm sure John would be appalled; but he has never met my mother.

From birth she did not love me. She shut me out of her heart, just like with Mycroft. We are her own experiments-distant, observing. Her lack of love accounts for mine.

I heft my bag onto the bed, sure the maid will put my clothes away for me. Mummy was always so predictable.

I'm sitting in this ornate room I've been given for the weekend, wondering idly what it would be like to grow up in a place like this when Sherlock bursts through the door with his usual ignorance of all things proper, like knocking. "Are you coming?" he asks with that tone of his that says he fully expects me to come, and considers his asking unnecessary and bothersome. "Coming where?"

"To see Mummy in the dining room, of course." To see his mother? . . .

"I'm sure you haven't seen your mum in a while. Wouldn't you rather have some time to yourself with her?"

"Why would I want that? You'll have to meet her at some point. We may as well get it out of the way now."

Sensing that there's no use arguing, I stand with a sigh and follow him.

John is slightly tense as I lead him to the dining room. I can only imagine the pointless worrying he is doing, though the worry itself shows plainly on his face.

"John, please. Mother will be fine. She is very friendly." To guests, I add in my head. There's nothing more scary than Mummy with her colleagues. She becomes almost...human.

"Oh, I'm not nervous," he lies. John is a terrible liar. He shoots a look at me that indicates I should take a train ride to a pit of fire.

Oh, I shouldn't be nervous. I'm only meeting the woman who raised one of the most important people in my life. Sherlock, being Sherlock, doesn't seem to ever understand just how nerve-wracking situations like this can be, and considering the fact that /he/ doesn't even seem to want to have anything to do with him, I can't help but feel that I'd rather face down another killer than risk Mrs. Holmes not approving of me. But, it's too late to turn back now, as we're at the door to the dining room. With his usual flair, Sherlock pulls it open and confidently strides inside. Taking a fortifying breath, I do what it seems I've been doing since I met him, and follow him.

This should be interesting, I think as I sweep into the dining room. Mother is not here yet, but we are still just a bit early. She is known for always being on time. "John, if you would take a seat beside me. I'm sure Mother has something to eat. It is almost dinner time, remember?"

Of course, John is still a little lost, probably marveling, again, at yet another room in this oh-so-humble abode. Suddenly, the door facing the front room opens and in strides Mummy in her trademark business suit. It's blue-which compliments her eyes of the same color-with a small H embroidered on the lapel. There was never any question as to where my brother got his dramatics from. It certainly wasn't Father.

"Sherlock, sweetie!" I stand up as my mother glides over to me and wraps her arms around me, clearly putting on a show for our dear guest. "It's been so long." Turning to John, I see her do the same, sizing him up. "And who might this be?" John opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. No use in him spoiling an already disastrous meeting.

"Mother, this is John Watson. A friend." A friend, Sherlock? Really? Immediately I see the shift in Mother's features. She is appalled, but only lets it show enough that I can see.

"A friend? Oh, wonderful." Ha. If only John knew how fake this charade is. This is going to be a long night.

As the evening progresses, Mrs. Holmes is perfectly nice to me, and loving to Sherlock, but I can't help but feel that this is not how she truly feels. It's not anything she says exactly, but more that none of her smiles seem to reach her eyes. When she looks at her son, it seems more possessive than loving. When she looks at me, it's as though she's wearing a kind mask behind which she's evaluating me as an enemy. Sherlock seems to think that I'm not capable of deducing things on my own, but I'm perfectly able to parse out emotions. After all, emotions run high in war, and you have to be damned good at reading the emotions of those you're relying on in order to survive.

I've never been able to place exactly why Mother treats me this way. I can't compare it to anything better because she has always been a part of my life. I can't understand why John is so quiet, either. Yes, he was nervous, but he normally gets over than within the first five minutes of meeting someone new. However, I begin to pick up on things. He is not nervous, he is uncomfortable. Could it be that he has picked up on my mother's ways? Of course not. But then again, John has always been more adept at finding emotions in people than I am.

When we are finished with dinner, Mother stands from her chair at the head of the table, kisses my cheek, shakes John's hand, and exits. Finally.

"Shall we go upstairs?" I ask as I turn to my flatmate.

"Sure. But you have to tell me why your mother is so..."

"Loving?" Oh, he's fed into her lies. I thought he would be a little better than that.

Once we get upstairs, Sherlock surprises me by leading me to the room that must be his. At home, he is not fond of allowing others into his personal space.

"So, why does your mum seem to view me as a threat?" Sherlock looks taken aback by this question. Clearly, he didn't think I'd catch onto his mother's true feelings.

"Mother has never been overly fond of anyone. However, she is adept at pretending affection, though you proved yourself competent at seeing through her."

John's revelation that he knows about my mother's attitude surprises me. I quickly get over it, however, and take a seat on the sofa that has been in my room since my teenage years.

"Tell me about her."

"There isn't much to tell, John." I shift uncomfortably.

"What is she like, then?"

"Cold. Dramatic." It is now that I feel really...disconcerted. I never tell John anything. Why am I being so open?

"Do you get along?" He is now sitting beside me on the couch, close to the oposite end.

"Hardly."

Cold and dramatic. Does Sherlock realize that he basically described himself. Wait. No. That's not right. Mrs. Holmes is truly cold and dramatic, putting on the pretense of being warm and caring. On the opposite side of that coin, Sherlock acts cold, but, as he's shown time and again, he truly does care. He defends Mrs. Hudson and myself in a way that screams out just how much he cares about us. That Sherlock and his mother don't get on, then, isn't all that surprising. One is too busy hiding the ice in their heart, and the other is occupied with smothering the fire in theirs.

John is quiet for quite some time, which is fine by me. I'm not sure I want to answer any more questions he has. I need peace. I need calm.

But lately, I haven't had calm without John. He has been my rock. Maybe this is why I have told him so many facts about my life. Maybe this is why I wanted him to meet my mother-it's not like he absolutely had to be there. It's just second nature.

I tell myself to settle, to calm. I sigh and John looks over, staring into my eyes. "You're not her, Sherlock."

There is a tightness in my throat. I am beginning to be sentimental. This is bad.

"You're not her, Sherlock."

As soon as I utter these words, I can see him relax a bit, the tension in his shoulders easing. I didn't realize just how tense he had become until that tension ceased. Did he really fear that he was like that woman? Wanting to further reassure him, I put a hand on his shoulder and give it a light squeeze. Sherlock looks at me, and the intensity of his gaze in that moment has me fighting off a blush. Wanting to change the topic, I look around and ask, "Was this your room as a child?"

John's touch catches me off guard, as well as his reaction. "Ah...yes, it is. Mother kept it free for me to use if I ever decided to return."

I turn to John, "It's so...bland. Empty."

"Yes, I suppose. I never spent much time here as an adolescent. "

The blonde-haired man is looking around the room, taking in the king-sized monster Mummy calls a bed. "It's big."

"The room, or the bed?" The blush that creeps up under his collar at the mention of the bed has my mind on high alert. Is John having indecent thoughts?

Damn. Why did Sherlock have to mention the bloody bed? I've caught myself more and more having naughty thoughts about him, but I AM NOT GAY, and Sherlock is married to his work, as he so often tells me, so I keep myself in check so as not to lose the most interesting flatmate I've ever had. Trying to ignore the fact that all the blood in my body is heading south, I say, "The room, Sherlock. Though the bed /is/ ridiculously large."

"Yes, I suppose it is. The bed, I mean. Though, when I think about it, I never used it much for sleeping." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them, for I know what the words could imply. Apparently John heard the unintended innuendo, for he slides his eyes in my direction and his face becomes infinitely more red.

"Ah-I'm not exactly sure I should know about your...activities." John is glancing around, obviously avoiding eye contact. "This room, though, has a lot of potential." I see no reason in him trying to change the subject.

"John, do not be fooled. I had no...relations on this bed." Why am I opening up to this man? Why do I feel like I have to?

Why do I want to? "I wouldn't know. And you really need to learn how to phrase your sentences better." He glances at me, face almost at it's normal shade again. Thought I admit, it does make him more attractive-from a purely observatory perspective. "Or at least warn someone when you are going to say something slightly suggestive."

From the annoyed look on Sherlock's face, I can tell that we're back on safer ground. Since he's already irritated, I decide to try to pry a little more information out of him. "Why didn't you use it much to sleep? I know you don't sleep much, but when you do, you tend to sleep in your bed, at least.", I ask as I turn back to the bed. After a moment of hesitation, he replied, "I didn't like being home."

John's concern throws me off. I don't want to share, but I know I must. "Mycroft and Mummy always thought they had my best interest at heart. If it weren't for the strong backbone I supposedly inherited from Father, I would be the British Government, not my dear brother." I pause to study John. He seems interested, so I continue. "Mother and I were never close. Mycroft and I once were, in childhood. That umbrella he always carries was a birthday gift from me to him." I find myself chuckling at the memory. I feel a prick behind my eyes. "I was never one for sentiment, but Mycroft-now, he's never been separated from that object." I realize now I am rambling. "Mummy drove me away. I hated this place, much like i do now. I would often sneak out as a teenager just to get away from this place, from her. Some nights I would even prefer this sofa to the bed. Mummy was my reason for leaving."

Sherlock has never opened up to me like this. He'll share the nasty tidbits, like his history with drugs. But when it comes to emotions, he's always been a locked box. The fact that he's allowing that box to open now touches me deeply, so I can't help but get a little tight in my throat as I look at him and say, "I am so sorry. I'm sorry she couldn't just accept you and what you wanted from life." Sherlock seemed to shake off whatever had allowed him to be open and emotional and simply said, "It's unimportant."

I am emotionless again. I do not feel. I do not let the conversations of the last few hours get to me. I am a wreck. I feel the tears before they escape my eyes. However, before I can let John see, I turn my head, sweeping my hands over my face in an I'm-so-tired gesture, disguising the tears under my palms. This should not happen. Why is it happening? Why did John have to make me tell him everything about him? Why do I want him to know? Why won't these damn tears stop? Soon I cannot hide the fact that I am not an emotionless shell and I sob. For no reason, I am breaking down in front of a flatmate that shouldn't mean more to me than just that-a flatmate.

I am not going to do this. I am not going to admit defeat. I am not weak. I am not.

Just as I'm thinking that Sherlock is going to revert back to wearing his unfeeling mask, I notice his shoulders shaking. No sooner have I noticed this than he starts full-on sobbing. So much for that mask. Some emotions are just too strong to be bottled. Startled to see a truly vulnerable Sherlock, all I can think is that I want to protect him. I never want to see him cry like this again. Not sure how best to comfort him, I simply gather him into my arms and let him cry.

It isn't for another ten minutes that I notice the arms around me. I am not freaking out. I am not wanting to move. I stay here in my blogger's arms because somehow, some way, this feels right.

I'm sure John has noticed I'm not crying anymore. Yet he is just there-he stays. He does not move. In fact, his arms wrap tighter around me. I am comfortable, therefore I do not mind. We stay here in this position for a while. My mind is calm. I do not realize I have fallen to sleep until I jerk myself awake. John is sleeping beside me, arms still tightly encasing my torso.

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that I'm cold. The second is that Sherlock is staring at me from where he's sitting on the floor as though he can deduce what I dream by the way I cut my hair. God, I hope that's not true. Otherwise, things might get very awkward. "Morning. Why are you on the floor?" At this, Sherlock looks away before quietly and hesitantly replying, "I was worried that if you were too cramped your shoulder would be stiff in the morning." Now that he mentions it, my shoulder /is/ a bit stiff, but it was worth it to sleep beside him, and worth it all the more because he was /concerned/ about it being stiff. He, who barely remembers that his own body needs food to function, was worried about my comfort.

I am slightly ashamed now that John is awake. Before, I had been content with watching John sleep, him snoring along like there wasn't a crime to solve. Before he wakes up, a sigh escapes his lips, and I want to hold him.

Then he is awake and I am immediately embarrassed. I look away, exchanging pleasantries, explaining why I have moved to the floor. And it is the truth-his comfort concerns me.

I want to go now, but I stay. John is staring at me, anchoring me to the spot, pulling me forward.

Sherlock looks back at me now, and if the intensity of his gaze last night was hard to bear, this morning, it's even worse. Now, I have held that man as he poured out his heartache. Now, I know just how good it feels to comfort him. Just as I'm starting to formulate some reasonable excuse as to why I have to go, Sherlock rises from the floor just enough that he can touch his lips to mine.

Before I can stop myself, I lean forward and up, pressing my lips against John's. I am uncomfortable in this position, but that doesn't matter at all when John grasps my shoulders and responds to the kiss. I hear him give a small sigh and it hits me-John has wanted this. I am kissing him and he is kissing me back and shouldn't he be pushing me away because according to John he is definitely /not gay/.

When John and I finally separate, we are both breathing quite heavily and my heart is racing. I see a blush creep up from underneath his collar before I force my eyes away, completely embarrassed.

Sherlock can kiss. He's as brilliant at that as he seems to be at everything else. Now, though, he's looking away as though he's embarrassed or ashamed. I hope he's not ashamed. Despite all claims that I'm not gay, I can't bring myself to be ashamed of kissing Sherlock. After all, he seems to be the exceptional exception to everything in my life. Hoping that he'll be able to tell just how much I enjoyed our kiss, I say, "Well, that was a pleasant surprise. I wouldn't mind waking up to that every day."

John's comment has me wondering. "You are not-"

"Gay? No." He pauses as if trying to put something into the right words. "I am not gay. I have never experimented. Trust me, there were times in the army when I wanted to-I was just so ashamed." he pauses and leans forward, grabbing my chin and turning it so I am looking at him. "But you, Sherlock, you seem to be the one exception to all of my rules."

I am closing my eyes, hoping to wake up because this-this is a dream, and to keep going on like this would be torture. But I do not wake up; this is real. So I lean forward one more time and brush my lips across my flatmate's cheek, then his lips.

The brush of Sherlock's lips against my skin feels like heaven. I lean into the contact for a moment, then stand and help him up from the floor.

"While I would love nothing more than to stay on this couch and snog you all day, we have a case, and I don't know about you, but I'd rather have breakfast and a nice cup of tea before running all over the countryside."

Sherlock's face at that moment clearly says that he'd prefer the snog as well, but then he shifts back to the Sherlock who's married to his work. "I don't require breakfast."

I guess some things will never change.

I easily slip back into the routine of things; my mind is focused on the case, no matter how often it wanders back to this morning. In the sitting room I sip my tea, and eat a slice of toast just to please John. I guess I am hungrier than I thought, for the one slice wasn't enough, and I find myself reaching for another.

John eyes my motion from his position on the other end of the sofa. "Hungry?"

My mouth opens, but before I can answer, a voice carries over from the hall. "Well," Mummy begins. I shudder internally, "it seems you two had a nice sleep. John, I see your army days still affect you." So she has done a background check. I expect no less. "My maids informed me that it was like no one had slept there at all." Oh, Lord.

Unwilling to give any ground to Mrs. Holmes, I do my best to appear calm despite my embarrassment as I reply, "Old habits die hard. Military precision becomes deeply engrained in a soldier."

"Yes, I imagine so." She seems a bit disappointed that she didn't get a rise out of me. I'm a bit disappointed that she spoiled my quiet breakfast with Sherlock. I was feeling rather happy until she walked in. So, I guess we'll both just have to live with our disappointment.

Mummy is miffed. I suppose she was trying to embarrass me. What she doesn't know is that, though I may feel some things, embarrassment is just not one of them. The toast I had picked up earlier lays uneaten on the breakfast tray. Mummy strolls in, kisses me on the cheek, "I just wanted to wish you a good morning," and with a nod to John, leaves.

"I am sorry, John," I say before he can get a word in. He is trembling-from rage, not shock or hurt, just pure anger. I don't blame him.

"Sherlock, what we do on our time is our business. I know she is your mother, but announcing things such as...us...is very wrong. I am quite miffed." His speech makes me want to wrap him in my arms, but I refrain. This is a time to be professional.

Sherlock, who had looked a touch annoyed at his mother, seems to relax a bit as I vent about her. "She knows no bounds when it comes to trying to hold onto me with both hands. You're close to me, so she wishes to do all she can to send you running into the night. Of course, she fails to realize just how tenacious you are." Now I can feel my own self relaxing somewhat as I let his words soak in. I smile as I think to myself that Sherlock himself may not realize just how tenacious I can be now that I know he feels the same way about me as I feel about him.

"Okay," I begin, "we need to go meet up with Mycroft. He will be at the bank in the city." I am standing now, and John follows suit. On impulse I reach over and fix the collar of his jumper. His features soften and I angle my head down and place a kiss on his forehead. "I told you once that I was married to my work. I suppose I still am, but you, John. You are a part of my work. You walk along with me on every case-even this one."

John stands, stunned at my words. "Now come, John. The case awaits."

I'm taken aback by Sherlock's admittance that he cares about me, or wants me with him. Explicitly stating how he feels is always difficult for him, especially since he wants the world to believe that he has no emotions. Nonetheless, his actions always make his feelings clear. Like now. Sitting in the car on the way to the city, he sits a bit closer to me than we have in the past. Walking towards the bank, I hold his hand. We don't discuss these things. We just do them. It's as though we've been dating for months instead of hours. But of course, our relationship has always been this way. I killed a man to save him just hours after I met him. We've always had a connection.

When we are in the cab, I unconsciously sit closer to John. As we enter the bank, John takes hold of my hand and I do not protest. After Mycroft has briefed us on the details of the heist and left, I steal a kiss from John. This is new. This is normal. This is perfect.

/Caring is not an advantage/. My brother's words ring in my ears, echo through my head, and try to taunt me about my friend. I do not mind. John is mine and I am his. This is how it should be. I cannot believe I did not see this before. I, the master of the science of deduction, did not notice the caring bond forming between detective and doctor. We are connected in a way that I've never been before-not even with my brother. No, this is a whole new level.

For the rest of the day, Sherlock studies the evidence for the case and I look up cases as the evidence leads them to need more information on specific suspects and long-lost relatives of suspects. It's fascinating to see his mind work. What's even more fascinating is seeing him pull him out of his mind palace to throw me a smile or to ask my opinion. It's not something he's done before, but I have to say that I like it.

It's easier to concentrate on the case now. I am finding myself more and more intrigued by it as the day goes by. However, even though my mind palace is plentiful in information, I still have to ask John for his thoughts and intel on certain subjects. I do not mind. I am comfortable. With John I feel like I can solve this mystery. But it will still take a few days, even with our combined knowledge.

Over the next few days, Sherlock and I work to solve the case whilst avoiding his mother. As always, it falls to me to ensure that Sherlock does not wither away. I make sure he remembers things like food and sleep. Luckily, I've now discovered that the added incentive of sleeping beside me is enough to coax him to bed.

It's early Monday morning. John is lying beside me, slightly snoring. Though I should probably be worried about his nasal passages, I find the sound quite calming, and even a bit attractive. A thought flits through my mind: Why am I awake?

I hate sleep. Wait, that is untrue; I hate waking up. It takes too much time for my mind to wade through the fog created by unnecessary dreams. The only reason I have slept the past two nights is due to a certain army-doctor-turned-blogger. The lure of slumber became so much more over the weekend. I almost wish we didn't have a case to solve so we could stay here for a while. Almost.

Waking up next to Sherlock is always a sweet moment for me. Though, seeing the look on his face as I wake up makes me wish that I could watch him sleep at some point. He seems to find watching me so pleasing. Unfortunately, he never sleeps too long. He's just not built for it, I guess. "Good morning" I say with a smile and a yawn.

"Good morning. Did you know that you snore?"

His shocked expression makes me smile, and gives me all the evidence I need. "Ohh," I taunt, my voice groggy from the last remnants of sleep, "you didn't know?" I smirk, leaning closer to him and running a hand over his cheek. He is pouting. "Don't worry. I find it quite appealing." At my words and touch, his features soften.

"You're lying." His eyes mock me and I feign hurt.

"John, why would you think that?" I like this game. It makes me feel calm, which is so much different than my normal internal mess. I haven't become bored once since the weekend began.

The smirk on Sherlock's face is enough to make my blood burn. He is so rarely like this. Playful and mischevious, without being mocking or scornful. I've never really seen him be this way with anyone but me. The Woman got a glimpse of this side of him, but no more than a glimpse. Maybe that's why this is the Sherlock I like best.

I lay my hand on John's arm, feeling the blood pulse beneath his skin, growing faster at my touch. How I wish there wasn't a case to get back to. "We should probably eat," I whisper to him. Instantly he deflates, looking sad and disappointed. "But," I add, "we may solve this today. I have good feeling. We're on a roll." John brightens a little at this comment.

Suddenly I realize that I have taken on the habit of saying "we" instead of "I"; I don't know if I like it.

"Maybe," he says, "but don't get a big head. Heaven knows you don't need that." I roll my eyes as I roll out of bed. John follows suit, only to be grabbed by the shoulders and kissed. Hard.

"I have wanted to do that many times this morning," I whisper when the kiss breaks.

"Mmmm. Not a bad way to start the day."

Sherlock's answering smile is almost as good as the kiss. "But, you might want to be careful about that if you want to get any work done today." His smile grows. He leans in for another kiss before pulling away. "Save that as celebration for the completion of case."

Throughout the day I block the morning out of my head-for the most part. There are times, I must admit, when I have the urge to lean over the temporary desk and snog John for a full minute; that is precisely what I do. Later, however, I am so engrossed in the case that when I solve it, John is the furthest thing from my mind.

"Let's go," I say curtly as I grab my coat and leave the room.

Today, Sherlock has been affectionate at points. Grabbing me by the collar and pulling me close for a bit of a snog. At other points, you can visibly see him pull away from the world as he works out the puzzle before him. Now, I'm following the Sherlock I first met -the Sherlock who is cold and curt as he pursues his answers. But I don't mind. I never have, really. Once he finds the answer he seeks, he'll come back to the world for at least a while. And those moments in reality more than make up for his taciturn attitude at other times.

"Mycroft," I begin, "It was as you feared." The look on my brother's face speaks volumes-he does not care.

"Well I'm glad you figured it out. I was afraid you would be too distracted by John to do much investigating." I see John blanch behind me.

Mycroft is not the only observant one. "Really, brother. It is a surprise you can find time to sleep, what with running the British government and shagging Lestrade at the same time." Ah, so I was correct; his eyes shoot daggers at me.

"Wait." John finally decides to speak up. "What did you find out, Sherlock?"

I'm curious to know the solution to the puzzle, but honestly, my primary concern is just to intervene before the two Holmes brothers can throw any more barbs at each other. However, I'm scared that I waited too long to interrupt, as Sherlock just continues to smirk at Mycroft for a few moments.

"Sherlock? What did you find out?" I ask again. Finally, he reacts. He looks at me as he replies.

"It would seem that my great-great-grandfather had an affection for baubles, and enough cleverness to get away with having one such rather large bauble "stolen" from him and then placed in his personal safe deposit box. Of course, I doubt he expected to have descendants cleverer than him."

When I was a child, I had always wondered just how we came into so much money. Father only had a small position in one of Britain's top trading businesses; it was certainly not enough for the fortune we were sitting on.

My suspicions were confirmed when I found out Great-Great Grandfather Sherlock was in fact a thief. Mycroft must have thought so as well or he would not have commissioned me for the job.

"Good work, Brother." Oh, a compliment from the British Government himself? How prestigious.

As Mycroft and Sherlock discuss the case and how the conclusion was reached, I sit in silence. Their ancestor was a thief? What does this mean for them? Will they have to give up their wealth? If so, then why would Mycroft ask Sherlock to try to find out who took the jewel? Sherlock said that Mycroft had feared this would be the answer that would be reached.

"Mummy will be so disappointed."

"Of course she will. When isn't she?"

"I suppose you have a point, Sherlock."

"You realize what this means, of course."

"She will hate to lose the house. I know she loves the garden."

"Mother loves nothing, Mycroft. You know that better than anyone."

At my words, my brother turns and walks out with barely a goodbye.

"That was a bit harsh, wasn't it?"

Now I've been completely side-tracked from thoughts of the repercussions of the thief's outing. Instead, I'm focused on Sherlock and what he thinks of his mother. I knew he wasn't fond of her. At all. But does he really feel that she doesn't love him at all? And does he really feel as though Mycroft feels the same way? After all, Mycroft has chosen to live with her all these years.

"Sometimes, John, the truth is harsh." I turn to look him in the eye. "Mycroft feels the same. Though we haven't discussed it, he never goes to see Mother. They avoid each other like the plague."

"And that is supposed to mean he knows?" John clearly does not get it. Mother cares for no one. We are her sons, her blood, and yet a nanny raised us. Mummy could not be bothered to change a diaper or even hug us goodnight. If I could see it by the time I was five, then surely Mycroft has noticed it by now.

"Yes. Now grab your coat. We have to go home."

Home, yes. That small, messy flat that I can see now is a far better home for Sherlock than this spacious estate ever was. We'll go home and, if I'm lucky, Sherlock will give me the chance to prove that someone loves him, even if it's not his family. Just as I'm finishing that thought, I see his mother crossing the hall. Before I can stop myself, I walk up to her and say, "Mrs. Holmes, I'm not sure if you know this, but your son is a genius. He's strong, independent, smart. Sure, he can also be tactless and lazy, but that's Sherlock. You may not realize it, but that brilliant man is not a possession for you to show off. He is a son for you to love. He's worth a lot more than that gem your ancestor stole so cleverly. But, I'm not sure you'll ever comprehend that he is more than his value. He is a diamond in the rough, one that cannot be appreciated by cold analysis alone. No, he needs to be looked at through a filter of affection for one to truly understand just how amazing he is. And it's sad that you'll never have that understanding." With that, I turned and walked away to get my coat and bag before meeting Sherlock at the door. I looked up at him, framed in the doorway, then grabbed his hand and said, "let's go home."


End file.
